Sadiq immediately applied for family reunification. He filled out forms, wrote letters, and chased up responses. It dragged on. Two years after he had been granted the residence permit, he faxed a handwritten letter to the Norwegian embassy in Ethiopia, where Sara and the children were waiting to emigrate. “My family has no relatives in Addis Ababa and no means of support so it is a hell there.” He added that his wife and children were sick. “I ask therefore you will give my family priority first before you go on holiday.”
That same autumn, Sara and the children were flown to Norway as part of a UN family reunification program and settled in Bærum, the Norwegian municipality with the highest percentage of millionaires and the greatest divide between rich and poor. Ismael and Leila were enrolled in the kindergarten, and Ayan entered a class where newly arrived refugee children were given a year to learn Norwegian prior to being placed in regular schools. From her first day of school, Ayan wore a head scarf, which her classmates learned was called a hijab. She had different ones, with lace, with trimming, in various colors and patterns. The first time she got into a fight over the head scarf it was the bully, a fair-haired boy, who wound up in tears. If someone said something she did not like, she let fly. Physically at first, in time with words. No one was a match for Ayan’s verbal attacks. As soon as the language barrier was broken, the teachers at Evje Primary School began to notice how clever she was. She knew about things her classmates had no knowledge of, and she loved telling stories. The only pupil from Africa in the class was simply pretty impressive.
A year after they arrived in Norway, Sara became pregnant, and in 2002 Jibril was born. Isaq came along five years later. As the family grew in size, the Bærum authorities allocated them larger apartments. For a long time they lived in Hamangskogen, a development of high-rises with lots of space between them. The area was crowded with children. The girls jumped rope, ran around in the playground, went to the beach, and learned how to swim at the pool. Leila’s chief desire was to follow her big sister no matter what she did or where she went. Sometimes she was allowed; more often she wasn’t.
Ismael played football every chance he got. Football was the last thing he thought about before going to sleep and the first thing on his mind when he woke up, and he asked his father to put his name down for a team. He dreamed of having a kit with BÆRUM SPORTSKLUBB across the front, dreamed about playing in matches, going to cup competitions, telling people about the goals he scored, and of having a coach. He pestered his father. To no avail. Busy with his own life, Sadiq would say “next year” every new season, while Ismael went on playing ball between the blocks.
From the day she arrived, Sara felt lonely and yearned for her family in Hargeisa. She pushed little Isaq around in the buggy and complained that people criticized her no matter what she did. She never knew what she was doing wrong because she didn’t understand what the elderly in the neighborhood were saying to her. Did she go to the wrong places? Did they not like the color of her skin, her wearing a head scarf, or her covered-up body?
Even after thirteen years in Norway, her soul was still in Somaliland.
Now it was torn apart.
Sara went into the bedroom and lay down on her unmade bed. Her mobile phone lay beside her with the ring volume on full. In case.
She and the girls had their share of quarrels, of course, but they used to be able to talk about things. And the girls always asked permission … even if it was only to knock on the neighbors’ doors.
* * *
Sadiq wandered around Atatürk Airport at a loss, struggling to find his way out of the international terminal. When he eventually reached passport control, he was denied entry because he didn’t have a visa. He joined a new line in front of a cashier’s window, where he bought one and then rejoined the passport queue. Finally he made it out of the enormous terminal and walked over to the run-down hall where the domestic flights departed from.
He bought a ticket to Adana, the place Ayan had inadvertently given as the girls’ location when she sent her message about the “last meal in Europe.”
He would catch up with them.
While he flew south, larger machinery was being set in motion. A direct line of communication had been established between the leaders of the investigation, the Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and Kripos, the criminal investigation service of the Norwegian police, which were in touch with Interpol. The Norwegian embassy in Ankara had contacted local police and border stations in the south of Turkey requesting that the girls, if they were identified, be taken into custody.
As Sadiq landed in Adana, a message from the police appeared on his phone. The girls had most likely traveled to Antakya in the south. This was a presumption, because there had not been any activity on their mobile phones in the past twenty-four hours.
Antakya? Where was that?
“You can get there by bus,” he was told at the information desk.
* * *
That Saturday night, rumors started flying.
